Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

“Remove your ruffians from the Council chamber at once,” wheezed a rheumy old creature whom Feric recognized as Larus Krull, the senile Libertarian leader. •

“On the contrary,” Feric rejoined, “the SS elite will eject your useless carcasses from this establishment in due course.”

“There is no precedent for private guards in this chamber, Trueman Jaggar,” whined a foppish individual in florid blue and gold. This was Rossback, one of the three Traditionalists, an utter cretin.

“I have now remedied that lack,” Feric replied dryly.

“I demand that you remove your men at once!” insisted Guilder, a notorious toady of Krull’s.

“We must vote on the question,” said the Universalist, Lorst Gelbart. This was a truly repellent mound of protoplasm, but when the pustulant creature opened its mouth to break wind, the other wretches displayed a strange deference, instantly falling silent and paying rapt attention to Gelbart’s words. And no wonder, for it only took one quick glance from Feric’s trained eye to discern that this Gelbart, with his greasy black hair, crude blue tunic, and beady, rodentlike eyes, was actually a Dominator! The odor of Dom was fairly exuded by his coarse and unwashed skin. If the foul creature had not yet totally enmeshed the Council in a dominance pattern, it was clearly only a matter of time, and not much of that by the look of things!

Therefore, there was no point in wasting time with foppish niceties. “I did not come to this meeting to exchange banter or haggle over points of protocol, much as such pastimes may be to the liking of specimens such as yourselves,” Feric said, turning a disdainful gaze on each of the human Councillors in turn, so that there would be no doubt of the contempt in which he held them. When his eyes met Gelbart’s, there seemed to be a strange moment of mutual recognition of the facts of the matter, though the stinking Dom prudently made no attempt to draw Feric into his psychic web.

“I am here to present the basic program of the Sons of the Swastika and to demand its total and immediate implementation,” Feric continued. “The racial will demands nothing less.”

Of course, the jaws of these old windbags fell open at the sound of such a forthright statement, and the pack of them gulped and gasped like beached fish. Gelbart, for his part, maintained his inhumanly cold expression throughout.

Ignoring the impotent silent protests, Feric ticked off the basic Party demands. “Firstly, the Treaty of Karmak must be renounced and all mongrels and mutants forever barred from every inch of Helder soil. Secondly, the racial purity laws must be enforced with renewed rigor, and because of the laxness of late which has allowed all sorts of contaminants to infiltrate the Helder gene pool. Classification Camps must be established throughout the nation where all Helder whose genetic purity can at all be called into question will be held until their pedigrees and genetic patterns are thoroughly reexamined. Those found to be genetically contaminated will be given the choice of exile or sterilization.”

Feric stared at Gelbart evenly, without betraying emotion; he sensed, however, that the Dom knew full well that Feric had smelled him out. “Any Dominators that are discovered,” Feric said, “will of course be slain. Thirdly, the size of the army must be speedily tripled so that we may deal properly with the mutant hordes that surround us. Finally, in order that this new national policy be carried out with the utmost vigor and force, this Council must vote to suspend the constitution and grant me emergency powers to rule by decree.”

“The man is mad!” shrilled old Pillbarm, the dean of the Traditionalists, a dried-up old prune who had not yet displayed the capacity for human speech.

Instantly, Feric was on his feet, the Great Truncheon of Held in his hand, a towering figure of righteous wrath.

“Do any of you dare defend the contamination of the gene pool by mutants and mongrels? Will you defend the lives of Dominator filth with your own? Will you stand before the Helder people and declare that a position of weakness is preferable to a policy of utter force and iron resolve?”

There was no reaction to this ringing challenge; that alone was sure indication that Gelbart’s dominance pattern was all but established. As if by command, the cowardly wretches held back and waited for the Dom itself to reply.

“All this talk of genetic purity is long out of date, Jaggar,” Gelbart said with a cruel little smile. “Already many of the people are demanding that great masses of mutants be imported to perform the distasteful labor necessary to maintain a high civilization. Soon Heldon will realize that much the best course is to breed mindless creatures, protoplasmic robots, if you will, in the manner of Zind. You are shouting in a whirlwind. The natural sloth of human beings is your implacable foe.”

Feric ignored Gelbart entirely; there was no point in reasoning with a Dom, and even less in trying to persuade his craven victims to do their racial duty. The only thing that would set to right the pestilence that ate at the heart of Heldon was the ruthless application of force.

Feric sheathed the Steel Commander, but remained standing, and raked each member of the Council in turn with his steely gaze. All save Gelbart—who of course was beyond such human reaction—withered in turn under the psychic onslaught.

“I have done my duty as a true human and given you fair warning and an opportunity to lend yourself without coercion to the expression of the racial will,” Feric said evenly. “Unless you immediately vote to accept the Party program forthwith, you are openly declaring the moral bankruptcy of the government of the High Republic. You call down the consequences on your own heads.”

Only Gelbart had the impudency to reply to this solemn warning. “Do you dare to threaten the Council of State of the High Republic, Jaggar? Even a Councillor may be arrested for treason.”

The grotesque humor of this puling Dom actually accusing a true human of treason to Heldon was almost enough to make Feric burst out laughing despite the righteous fury aroused in his heart by this ultimate perfidy.

“I’d like to see this collection of old dung try to arrest the Knights of the Swastika and the SS for treason!” Feric roared. “We’d soon see who would be hanging from traitors’ gibbets!”

With this rejoinder, Feric turned on his heels and stalked out of the Council chamber.

Upon his election to the Council of State, Feric had moved the Party’s national headquarters to a spacious compound near the center of Heldhime, roughly equidistant from the Palace of State and Star Keep, headquarters of the Army Star Command, and bivouac for the city garrison. The new headquarters had been the palatial residence of an industrialist who had been persuaded to lease it to the Sons of the Swastika for a nominal sum.

The mansion itself fiad been divided up into apartments for Feric, Bogel, Waning, Render and Best, dormitories for lesser Party functionaries, meeting rooms and offices, while two thousand SS were housed in tents pitched on the broad expanse of lawn within the high stone wall of the compound. Motorcycles and cars were kept in various outbuildings and sheds; machine-gun positions had been emplaced every fifty yards along the walkway atop the wall. In addition, five howitzers, heavily camouflaged, were secreted within the compound. All in all, the Party headquarters was a fortress sufficient to stand off the city garrison for some time without reinforcements.

Nevertheless, such reinforcements were readily at hand, for five thousand Knights of the Swastika under the direct command of Stag Stopa were barracked on the outskirts of Heldhime, not fifteen minutes by motorcycle from Party headquarters. One word from Feric, and these storm troops would roar into the city and crush any besiegers of the headquarters’ compound from behind.